Solar Flare
by fricking
Summary: Rane AU: Reed's a photographer and this might finally be his big break...he's shooting Shane Anderson for Dalton magazine. The thing is, Reed isn't exactly a bumbling virgin anymore and he's struggling to control his thoughts...and actions. Daltonfic!


_Basically not for baby-penguins, but there's no actual sexing, only graphic-ish thoughts. The sexing will come in another chapter if you guys like this or not._

**_AU: Reed's a photographer and this might finally be his big break because he's shooting Shane Anderson for the infamous Dalton magazine. The thing is...Reed isn't exactly a bumbling virgin anymore and he's struggling to control his thoughts, while Shane faces the exact same longing._**

* * *

This was the photographer's big break, his metaphorical 'light' at the end of the tunnel; it would be the start of a glorious rolling wrecking ball that would be his career…that is, if he can keep himself together.

Reed Van Kamp had never been a very sexual person as a teenager, while his friends at school had lusted over girls, and boys, he had mainly kept to himself…of course he'd had urges, but unlike others, he'd never expressed them.

Puberty never hit him like a bus; it was more like a tortoise, slowly creeping closer and closer until it gnawed at his ankles. Those ankles happened to be ravished during art school, already the equivalent of a massive art orgy, so Reed found himself getting fucked long and hard into the sheets while hiding from his roommate, who thankfully was never there, much more than he had ever expected. It was _bye bye_ cherub boy and _hello_ angel pressed up against the cold stone walls. Reed remembers being pressed up beside the dorms, cold hitting his exposed neck and warm lips sucking there, leaving a collection of scattered contrasting marks on his neck.

Looking like an artsy photographer wasn't the reason that the red-head wore those designer scarves all of the time.

After two years of schooling and two years of the dull monotonous click of capturing weddings to prom pictures, the Van Kamp heir was feeling lonely and under-appreciated. It didn't help that he was seeing all of these couples in his photographs, happy and incandescent as they basked in young love or relished in the comfort of their long term romance. He needed something or someone because he sure as hell was at one of the lowest points in his life, emotionally _and_ sexually.

Now, just as he thought he was getting his big break, shooting for Dalton magazine, the infamous fashion magazine with an _edge, _it was just his luck to walk in to the studio to find the one and only Shane Anderson draped across the silk couch in front of the contrasting white screen.

Shane's dark pink lips are parted as somebody from make-up applies bronzer to his already prominently defined cheekbones, and he's not just lying there, he's sprawled, lust personified as the stylist slowly pops the buttons of his shirt to reveal a toned and muscular stomach.

Reed feels a stab of hate/jealousy for the bitch who's touching him, whose fingers curl in the model's hair, creating volume, fingers that skim and curl around the model's cheekbones as she applies product to his face, fingers that reside on his skin a little too long.

Stumbling in awkwardly with his camera bag slung heavy over one shoulder, Reed's eyes travel upwards to meet with the dark, piercing eyes of the model. His mouth goes dry and his tongue feels too big for his mouth, pushing against his teeth and heavy at the back of his throat. He's sure he's gaping; the kind of gaping that's like a fish, all wide eyes and his mouth stretched wide, but he can't tear his eyes away. His blood burns like battery acid.

His body thrums yet he collects himself, setting up the camera tripod and shooing the make-up artists away with a flick of his hand. They're reluctant to leave, he's pretty sure he knows why.

"You can go guys. You all know he's **fine**."

The photographer supplies, a surge of colour flooding to his cheeks, because he might have put a little too much effort on the 'fine'.

Yet, his luck is absent because if Shane didn't notice the remark, he's noticed the solar flare surging through Reed's face and ears. His face betrays him, yet again.

"Yeah, scoot, as this lovely specimen just ordered…I'm **fine**. It's flattering to be ogled and all, it's just a little distracting."

Shane smiles wickedly, winking as he emphasises the last word, and if Reed's face _was_ a solar flare, this is the total explosion of the sun.

The model allows his eyes to roam over the photographer, he looks artsy, but not in the intention of being original, like it's just who he is. Yet, behind the cute and delicate exterior Shane can see that lustful glint in his eyes that Shane knows far too well. It melts his amber orbs into something _sinful_, something that merges his pupils so the iris swirls like black ink in water against the backdrop of honey brown. It's delectable and he can't stop **looking**. Shane really doesn't want to be caught on camera…in a compromising situation.

Fuck, if he doesn't stop looking as the strawberry blonde's tempting, bitten lip pulls slowly from his teeth that entrap the pink flesh; he certainly won't be able to control himself.

Reed's nimble fingers fiddle with camera, under model's scrutinizing gaze, his breath catches.

Tousling his hair in a way that would make the hair stylist tut, the model sighs and leans back to rest his head on the decadent sofa, half lidded eyes still fixed on his photographer.

Reed isn't thinking about straddling Shane on the sofa, kissing a long line down his exposed tan neck and making him squirm underneath him, well, he's trying not to…but then his tripod stand becomes a lifesaver, and he has to collect his ragged breath because, fuck, he cannot mess this up.

_Flash._

Shane Anderson's a famous dancer, modelling for the magazine because anybody who isn't blind would know that he is beyond gorgeous, just as gorgeous as his famous brother. The shorter man finally realizes what the hype was all about, and he knows why people wait outside the dance venues for hours just to get a closer view of sweat that drips in lines down his twisting body, the way his muscles would clench and contract when he dances, the way he would lose himself in the music.

Reed wants to know when his next concert is.

_Flash._

The model licks his lips seductively, burning holes into Reed's skin, the photographer can feel his stare through the lens, it's electrifying and heat trembles down his spine.

_Flash._

Reed looks down at the photograph, he doesn't want it published in a way, it is the epitome of sex and beauty, but somehow looking at it feels intrusive. It's almost as if he's captured a private moment, a moment between him and the dancer, and that thought isn't welcome.

He looks up, and yes, Shane's eyes are fixed on him, unwavering and it feels so much like seduction that Reed aches. But the dancer doesn't want him, surely.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. Who would?

Reed's smile twists down into a frown, he sighs.

"Where do you want me, now?" Shane purrs, one hand smoothing over the velvet sofa, the other running down the front of his already half open white shirt.

To Reed, it's the purest form of sexual torture. He would do anything just to touch him, wrap his lips around his cock and make him whimper and curse obscenely under his ragged breath…but he can't, he's not sure if he could anyway, his legs would buckle as soon as he got down on his knees.

"Up against the backdrop, please." Reed answers, and it's not fair because his hands are tremulous and the buttons on his camera are fucking fiddly and he's **shaking,** physically shaking because of Shane's presence, it's really not fair.

"But we haven't even had our first date yet. Jeez…Mr cute photographer guy, you sure are forward."

Mr cute photographer guy's brain implodes. Then the blood not needed for his newly non-existent brain fills his cheeks and oh god, he's a living, breathing tomato and Reed bets that he's not cute anymore.

Shane laughs wickedly and the Red-head chokes on air so hard, he nearly hacks his tongue off with his teeth.

"Uh...It's Reed, Mr ridiculously photogenic dancer. Though, wouldn't you be the one to press **me** up against the wall?"

Shit.

It's not his fault that being trapped in a dark room for hours on end can make you lose your filter in the outside world.

The minute once it had slipped out of Reed's mouth he instantly regrets it, he regrets the images his mind conjured to accompany it, Shane rocking against him, his hands trailing down his ass as he squeezes, their moans mingling together and Shane panting hard and warm in his ear.

This time, it was Shane who nearly swallows tongue, which was like a minor heart attack because _that happens to be one of his most accomplished body parts thankyouverymuch_.

Besides from choking to death, he can't help but imagine the noises that the Reed would make pressed up against the white backdrop, he can visualize the way Reed's legs would wrap round his torso and the way his hips would arch upwards against him. He imagines that Reed's nails would scratch and tear at his skin, or his delicate fingers would cling to his hips so hard as Shane fucked him, that tiny half-moons would be deliciously imprinted into his sides, as a reminder, a keepsake.

_Flash._

The light catches Shane of guard, yet his reaction is slow enough for Reed to get the photograph. Reed's eyes drink in the photograph, Shane's eyes are glassy and his lips are parted ever so slightly, and yes…this is going in the magazine.

Reed subconsciously licks his lips and hums in the back of his throat.

"That's perfect." He purrs.

The dancer's body is aching for him, his cock is straining against his tight denim jeans and Shane **has **to resort to thinking of his fucking parents doing _that_ to stop his erection in its tracks.

He shakes himself out of his reverie, ugh; he's now scarred for life. Thanks Reed, why did you have to go and be all fucking gorgeous and fuckable?

"Yeah…I would wouldn't I? Though saying that, in high school there was this one kid, Alex, he looked like a total top but turns out he was such a…sorry rambling again, ignore me Reed..." Shane flushes.

Reed's name rolls of his tongue as if, in another life, he's uttered it countless times.

The photographer's stomach feels airy.

Reed's heart is thumping, throbbing in his chest and rattling his ribs, the room is silent, and the air is still yet magnetic. Everybody has gone, leaving him to his work and god, his heart and his laboured breath race around him, it pulses through the room like a heavy bass. Shane could fuck him right here on this sofa and nobody would ever know.

"I get what you meant," Shane cackles and jumps up excitedly, strutting up to the backdrop and leaning against it, tipping his head back with a moan suppressed in the depths of his throat and he's wantonly spreading his legs against the wall, "like this right?" he drawls. Wet tongue darting out to lick his lips again, Shane isn't tearing his eyes away from Reed, who may or may not have lapsed into a coma, a coma where he's unbearably hard under his designer pants.

_Flash_. Reed's finger shakes a little as it takes the photo.

"Uh, they wanted suggestive but, that's a little…too suggestive."

Shane pulls his legs back together and tips his head forward again; his previously wet, parted lips are closed together in a small smile. He runs a hand through his head of dark curls, his brow furrowing.

"I've never done this before, if you can't already tell. How do you be a model? I'll probably end up duckfacing, help me?"

"I'm not a model myself, but…"

"You should be..."

"Oh, um, well, as I was saying, I'm not a model, but I've seen models at work. This magazine sells sex," Reed's cheeks are flaring at the word sex, and he's not even sure why, he can imagine dirty, borderline outrageously kinky things but he can't even vocalise the goddamn word. "So, like other models, pretend the camera is someone you'd like to…do it with."

Shane chuckles.

"So basically, eyefuck the camera, right?" He replies, sending a glare of pure seduction into the lens, Reed blushes again, and he's twenty four for god sake he should not be blushing like some fucking cherub.

"Right."

_Flash._

Shane leans back, his eyes trained on the lens, the dark, grey-green eyes narrow and the pupils dilate; he exhales in one long, tortured breath.

"Oh camera, you sexy minx… you don't know what you do to me, fuck me camera, fuck me!"

Shane doubles over with laughter and Reed experiences an awful juxtaposition of going weak in the knees and chortling loudly. Just when he had thought he was getting somewhere.

He wants to cross his arms and pout at Shane like Kurt Hummel has expertly shown him how to do, he wants to get his work done, he wants to leave so he can go find some club where somebody can fuck this out of his system and he won't face another photo-shoot with another man that will make his knees weak or reduce him to a painfully aroused puddle of sexual longing. Even though Reed has a feeling, deep in the back of his subconscious, that no other man would cause him to have the violent reaction that he is experiencing.

Shane senses his discomfort and straightens out, still chuckling a little, "Sorry…pfft…couldn't resist, fuck."

Reed 'hmppphs' and crosses his arms in a very diva like manner that, if Kurt could see, would make him proud.

This is for you Kurt Hummel. To prove I've learnt something from your baby penguin to diva style seduction transformation.

He moves from behind the camera and slowly walks over to Shane, who is watching his every move intently, his eyes trailing up and down his form fitting clothes.

Shane automatically backs up against the wall, and his hips ache to arch up while his fingers tingle to reach out and grab the red-head by his Prada tie and pull him in, bite down his flawless neck and grind against him. Reed's so close now his breath is caressing his skin and he smells better than the dancer could have ever imagined, he wonders if the same principle applies to taste too.

There is only a slither of air between them now and it takes all of Shane's limited professionalism to keep it that way. He shuts his eyes as one of the slim fingers reaches out, his breath hitches as the red-head's hand touches his cheek, he does not dare breathe.

The fingers are a hot poker branding his skin. It's strange because Shane wants the trail of the digits to scar so when he wakes up tomorrow he'll know this wasn't some fever dream.

Reed wipes away the smudged eyeliner.

Shane exhales a little too loudly and he dies a little inside when Reed backs away.

"There, now no more crying with laughter because if you smudge any more of that eyeliner I will have to kill you...with that eyeliner" Reed wants to break down laughing.

"Yes, sir."

Reed turns scarlet and scurries of to shoot; Shane's a little flustered and, well perfect.

_Flash._

"Remember to look at the camera for this shot" the photographer warns, yet the dancer's eyes stay locked on his, Reed can see Shane's eyelashes are light brown in the piercing overhead light, his eyes have flecks of gold amidst the green-grey that reminds him of spring and nostalgic snapshots.

"But, I'd much rather look at you."

_Flash._

There's a click of the camera several times, and then Reed's pouncing on Shane, bringing their lips together and he doesn't mind when their teeth clack audibly together because the taller man's mouth is hot and wet, and now the initial shock is over he's doing glorious things with his tongue and the photographer has never been more turned on when he feels Shane's hardness pressed against him.

Shane drinks in the sounds that roll off Reed's tongue, vibrating from the depths of his throat, sounds that he elicits. Sounds that he's sure he was put on this earth to create, to listen to, to bask in.

The dancers nips Reed's wonderfully red bottom lip, and Reed gasps and surges forward, tangling himself in Shane.

Then he's pulling away, eyes wide and cursing.

"Fuck…I'm sorry…I just, that was totally unprofessional of me and…I totally get it if you want to file a complaint and I'm…"

Shane's eyes roam down the length of his body and there's a glimmer in his eyes that Reed wishes he hasn't seen enough times to know what it is…it's predatory, infused with something softer, something kind.

"Reed…Mr sexy photographer…shut the fuck up."

Shane yanks him by the designer tie and their lips meet again, softer this time, more indulgent. Reed tilts his head up slightly so their lips fit together perfectly, Shane's lips are still glistening wet from their last kiss and Reed swipes his tongue along the dancer's bottom lip...his job be damned. The tension in his shoulders drains as he relaxes into the kiss, drinking him in.

Somehow, they find their way to the sofa, and they topple onto the luxurious crimson fabric. Reed falls onto of Shane with an "Mfffphh" and then they're laughing together, chuckling in between heat infused kisses. It is glorious in all senses of the word.

The photographer's hands attempt to unbutton the rest of Shane's shirt, but he's trembling slightly too much so Shane does it for him, not breaking eye contact…or mouth contact. The dancer's strong hands roam over Reed's chest, finally pulling off his designer tie. Tangling his hands tightly into the wild curls at the nape Shane's neck, Reed can feel Shane smiling as he kisses him, it's different. There's a glimmer of hope that sparks in Reed's chest and blooms right down to his fingertips that are occupied, rubbing circles into the V on Shane's exposed lower chest, the warmth is so very welcome.

Shane arches up, as Reed grinds down, causing them both to moan in unison…it's a sound Shane knows will loop in the back of his mind for the rest of eternity and an image that will remain forever burned into the back of his eyelids.

Shane knows he doesn't want a loop on replay, he doesn't want a singular image wired into his mind, he wants Reed, he wants to do this a thousand times, he needs to see him blush for eternity, and he longs to hear all different kinds of moans and whimpers caused by all kinds of different _activities_. No he doesn't want a singular image, he wants a fucking hard drive, a never- ending collection.

All Shane knows is that he wants more, a whole lot more.

_Flash. Flash. Flash._

That's when he realizes he's got a little lost in his thoughts, and that the subject of those thoughts is now standing behind his camera, giggling as he looks at the photos he's just taken.

"You wouldn't dare!" Shane howls in mock anger.

"Oh, I think you'll find I would. I would go _so_ far to say I think this one is the **one**."

"Oh, you really are small but deadly."

"That's me, alright. So…what were you thinking so deeply about?"

"You."

Reed's cheeks are flared and he's chuckling as he looks at the photo, Shane looks thoroughly debauched and Reed laughs at the fact the he is the perpetrator.

"Cute, but I'm still using the photo."

"I really was thinking about you though…"

Reed feels all fluttery and overwhelmingly warm, it's a feeling he could get used to.

"Hmmmm….nope, flattery will get you _everywhere_ but I'm still using it, everyone will see your 'off in wonderland' face..."

"Fine," Shane says crossing his arms in such a diva-ish way that it puts Reed's earlier attempts to shame, "You can use the photo if you get your cute ass right here, now, and kiss me to make up for it."

Reed, unsurprisingly, does exactly that.


End file.
